Page 32 of I'll Look for You, Everywhere
‘Oh, you little fucker,’ Giuseppe screeches. ‘I should poison this coffee right now, this is so unfair.’ His mumbles become intelligible as he begins the sacred process of assembling the cappuccino. A priest of steamed milk and espresso beans, we witness something holy when Giuseppe makes a drink.
Head bent down in concentration, Giuseppe rotates the cup several times while pouring milk from the pitcher, cursing every few seconds.
Just when I’m about to ask if he plans on putting this cappuccino on display at the museum, Giuseppe grunts happily. With a loud exhale, he leans his elbows on the bar in exhaustion, and pushes the cappuccino towards the edge, beckoning me to come look. I step across the black and white tile of the cafe and approach the cup that sits before me. Peering down at it, my breath catches in my throat.
A crown.
Giuseppe stands with one arm on his hip waiting for me to laugh or applaud his work but I can’t do anything but stare. When I left Chivasso, I knew that I had cultivated a certain reputation. From the moment people started telling me I looked like my father, I knew parts of my life would be easy. I could get away with more. Like early-morning driving on the interstate with the sound of liquor bottles sloshing in the back. A makeshift ladder to the tree in front of my bedroom window for girls to leave through. I was reckless and angry but, regrettably, smart. Too smart. So, when I had to wake up those early mornings to travel an hour to school in Torino, writing essays on the back of the school bus minutes before they were due and then having those essays win awards, no one had the right to tell me I wasn’t living up to my potential. They were scared. Scared that I could do both so fucking well.
Somewhere between puberty and college applications, there was never a shortage of pleasure just waiting for me to dip my fingers into. Besides my father, the only person to ever call me on my bullshit was Dr Savoy. But even he couldn’t shout stop loud enough. So I pretended I didn’t hear, and eventually he stopped shouting.
‘I’m retired from that life, Giuseppe.’
I mean it to come out light-hearted but it sounds more like a plea. Please don’t call me that... I’m trying to not be that person any more.
I can feel it coming. How easy it would be to slip back into that role, to know exactly what to say to get who I want.
Giuseppe pushes the saucer closer to me, waving his hands in nonchalance. ‘Kings can’t retire. They can only die.’
‘That hardly seems fair,’ I say, looking down at the drink, feeling hollow.
‘Nothing ever is. Now try my fucking cappuccino.’
I bring the edge of the cup to my lips; the ceramic feels cool against the airless heat of the cafe. The foam is thick and warm and as I tilt the cup to reach the coffee, an image flashes of middle schoolers kneeling in pews, giggling over stupid jokes inside the echoing silence of the cathedral. This feels like a sacrament. A tiny cafe with flickering lights, coffee poured like it’s the blood of Christ. The liquid hits my tongue and the heat startles me. I continue drinking, the espresso initially bitter, but like a smooth dark chocolate. And, when I swallow, I’m left with an aftertaste of pure sweetness. I’ve never tasted anything like it.
‘Giuseppe, what the fuck?’ I have to actively hold in a moan.
‘I know.’ He bows, bouncing from foot to foot.
‘How the fuck did you make it taste it like that?’
‘My dick, I told you. Very flavourful.’
‘Wow.’ I pause to finish the rest in a single sip, slamming the cup back into the saucer. ‘Give me more.’
Giuseppe shrugs, obviously aware of his genius. ‘Coming up, your highness.’
‘By the way,’ I ask. ‘Does Chiara still work here?’
Giuseppe claps his hands. ‘She’s in the back. Let me go get her.’
I roll my eyes and ease into one of the bar stools. My descent has begun. The script brands itself into the back of my skull, forcing me to slip into the role I had quit. I stare down at the empty cup, a few foam bubbles popping at the edge of the bowl. It hits me that I no longer pretend to like the taste.
19
MAGDALEN
My feet begin walking before my brain realizes where we’re going. Memory is a funny thing. It morphs and expands, adding colours and scents to keep the memories fresh after years of dormancy. But the foundation will always remain the same. Even if the street signs have been worn down and the fountain no longer holds any water, my body knows to turn where the splotch of yellow paint slid onto the sidewalk. That the corner I pass used to smell like baked bread. Further down the avenue, a pink awning that has been faded by the sunlight prompts me to make another right. The coffee shop to my left with the flickering sign in the window indicates that in exactly two metres Marta’s boutique will be in front of me.
My stomach flips.
I’ve known Marta since secondary school and yet the anxiety never gets easier. Despite being Dante’s age, she wasn’t afraid to talk to me and Anika growing up. Even back then, she was poking and probing at us. Trying to get us to try on something neon. My heartbeat lurches one final time as my hands close around the doorknob. I’m jealous of people who like to chit-chat.
It’s warm inside the boutique. The windows haven’t been opened yet and the white floors have absorbed the daylight. Smiling to myself, I see the wire rack on the far-left corner that Marta left because she accidentally spilled a gallon of glue on the floor and could never get it all the way off. Good to know some things never change.
Fabrics of tie-dye and leopard print surround the store. There is nothing but sparkles and shades of neon from what I can tell and I instantly regret coming into the store. As much as I love Marta, I will not be wearing anything bejewelled. It’s simply not in my nature.
‘Cazzo.’ The nasal voice comes from behind the counter. ‘Who let models in my store?’ A throaty laugh fills the small space and I instantly regret not wanting to come in. Marta is colour. Strength in studded stilettos.
